Employee of the Night
by A Libertine So Grim
Summary: Crime leads to punishment, and Grell finds her job at stake. To redeem herself, can she commit herself to working overtime and taking up the, hmm, dirty work? The story takes place after ep. 17.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or its characters, and I do not make any money with my lousy fanfiction. Kuroshitsuji and its characters are property of Yana Toboso.

**Pairing(s)**: Undertaker/William/Grell, hinted Sebastian/Grell

**Warnings**: Rated **M** for pointless smut, Shinigami sandwich -- get your Kleenex ready!, unhealthy working environment, male-to-male content. Also, Grell might be a living warning tag him-/herself (see below)

**A/N**: I find it only fair that Grell gets 'her' female pronoun. Don't go bitching about it, I'm the writer.

* * *

"Oh, Sebby..."

She purred in delight as that perfect hand caressed her neck with tender strokes, waltzing through her scarlet locks and curling a few around his gloved fingers. Her prince was so gentle, so skillful as he touched her and whispered sweet words in her ear; Sebastian Michaelis treated her like the princess she had always yearned to be, but the man also knew what to demand in return...

"Now you've done it, Grell Sutcliff."

To think that she was the one to unchain that delicious side of him, to release the demon in a butler's speckless disguise; she felt so very special she could only submit to the man's cold words.

Cold? No, her Sebastian was a very passionate man. Was this part of the thrilling play as well? She shivered, daring to brush her lips by his as an apology for being oh-so-painfully irresistible. He accepted the kiss, those deceivingly soft hands lifting her head off the red velvet cushions... and then something sharp hit the back of her head, drawing a shrill cry from her lips as she opened her eyes to the pale languor of daylight.

Gone was her lustful demon with his slit silver tongue working its magic along her curves, and in his place was the black leather couch of her office. A very familiar surge of cold took over Grell as she held her hurting head, fumbling for her missing eyeglasses with the other hand; she knew all too well what had just disturbed her beauty sleep and mussed her hair when it should have been an entirely other activity to do that.

Of course, that man would not wait for her to collect herself and appear decent before him -- not that she would not have been that in the middle of a working day -- so she gave up on the last shards of her reverie and sheepishly turned her gaze to the tall, handsome figure of William T. Spears by her door.

"That really hurt, Will! You could have at least waited for a better moment." She blushed at her own remark, curling up in the corner of the couch to hide the shameful evidence of the fleeting fantasy between her legs. Only now did she realize those had been Will's words, not Sebby's that had tickled her earlobe and made her writhe on the couch like a wanton little vixen. That's right, she sighed with reddened cheeks; only Will would call her by her given name, cold as stone for all those decades.

Nervously, she batted her long eyelashes and dared an appealing gaze at the man whose infernal scythe was responsible for the rising bump in her head. Her fearsome superior stood still by the doorframe, overshadowing her; emerald green eyes motionless through thick steel-framed spectacles. Always so proper and professional... yes, Grell had a thing for men with a sense of duty, the type that would make a dreamy husband. She could never be mad at William, no; she knew he would always get the best of her with a single sharp look.

"Get you pathetic act together, Sutcliff. The only better moment I see is two minutes from here, which is when I will find _you_ in my office."

His steely voice permeated every cell of her body; she moaned in disapproval for the content of those words only and hopped quickly on her feet, exasperated. "But I did everything you assigned me, didn't I? I even dusted the bookshelves even though it's not--" she protested, not even having to extend the truth too far this time. There had been a substantial downfall in souls that were to be reaped -- spring had overcome winter, saving the homeless from cold and the depressed from heartache -- so she had finally been able to finish off those nasty manicure-ruining devils called paperwork. What else could William possibly wish for, she wondered, in fact thrilled as she imagined all the things the man never asked her -- all the things he _could_ ask and with which she would gladly comply...

Oh, she was mistaken. William did not _ask _- he gave _orders_. "My office. Two minutes. Miss it and you'll regret it, Sutcliff," he declared, long gloved fingers creeping to adjust his glasses -- and good heavens, lesser things would have sent Grell's mind jump into questionable conclusions. Color resurfaced on her face, heat in her body, yet he was already gone before she could even protest.

Two minutes, Grell thought, a nervous little smile twitching in the corner of her mouth as she faced the mirror to fix what little she could in such a short time. Her thoughts wandering into thinking what her boss would want from her at such an hour, there was no way they could dwell on the already forgotten fragments of Sebastian between her legs.

Yes, two minutes was all it took her to dab on some of her favourite perfume -- Damascus rose -- and brush her hair, even retouch her eyelashes and still make it exactly on time. "I'm here, Will! So what did I come for?" she exclaimed almost cheerily as the lamenting door welcomed her to her superior's dimly lit room.

She had never thought that being swept off one's feet could happen so very concretely, yet the floor that suddenly divorced her five-inch heels proved her wrong. It was William, his dark silhouette looming over the massive mahogany desk, broad shoulders and clasped hands forming big angles in his perfectly tailored suit; looking straight into his eyes, Grell felt a steadily escalating foreboding reflecting from those deep pools of undiluted wormwood.

"Grell Sutcliff. It has come to my attention that you have _attacked _your superior while on duty." William's voice was glacial as ever, perhaps a little spike at the wording he bowed to check from his papers; the man was just as much in disbelief as she was. Attacked, when? She had been consigned to working alone since time immemorial; the only colleague she ever saw was Mr. Spears himself, and the attacks usually landed the other way around. What was more, that particular day she had been sent in search of the missing cinematic record in the mortal world.

Well, maybe William was just too stressed out to remember every little detail and work shift. The poor thing practically ruled the ministry all by himself, and Grell found it extremely saddening to think that maybe he had no one to take care of _him_ in turn. Maybe she should do something about it, give him a relaxing massage or cook him a proper lunch served with a handsome cup of his favourite coffee. Black as the night, sweet as sin, she had noticed... yes, she would happily ease his burden, but right now was hardly the time for that.

Crossing her arms in defense, the redhead shook her head, her vision still somewhat obscured by the pain and her defiant bangs. "No way! I'm a lady, not some brute who deliberately disturbs the fragile harmony of her workplace! This is a misunderstanding!" she exclaimed, bringing her lips to a foolproof pout as she leaned in for a peek at those suspicious papers.

_Swosh._ Her heart skipped a beat, her chest a heave; William had stood up, his glasses clashing onto hers and his large hands slammed on the desk. He looked straight into her immortally enchained soul, into eyes of the very same colour as his, making a very bittersweet fear creep up her spine. There was clearly no misunderstanding -- there was no such word in her boss' vocabulary; he was _livid, _he was outraged, and this time, she honestly had no clue why.

Powerless before his frosted passion, she felt her eyes water slightly at the austere intensity of his eyes and sharply articulating mouth nearly brushing her own. "Sadly, I don't have the authority to send you packing despite such barbarity. I am, however, responsible for administering a proper punishment for your misdeeds. Isn't that right... Undertaker?" It was dramatic clockwork; William averting his sharp gaze to the other chair, driving it in turn to spin around and strip the shadow off a figure fully veiled in the blackest black.

_Undertaker_. Infuriated, Grell whimpered out his name, an enraging memory blinding her eyes and churning in her ears. Her hands clawed at the air to reach that vile man who had broken her breathless dream, hauled her away into a mouldy coffin and -- the worst of all! -- called her all those horrible things; yet the 'legendary' Death God merely chuckled his greetings and raised his skeletal hand into a quirky wave. How dare he prance in here and show her William only one side of the medal, to beat the beaten?!

"You... you sold me out! How could you, after speaking to me like _that? _Will, don't listen to him, he's--" she cried, flailing like a scarlet hurricane between the two men, desperately pulling at both strings only to snap them all and choke her last word in her boss' steely grip at her collar. She struggled for breath in his smouldering sphere -- it held a piquant vestige of tobacco, she noticed -- and steeled herself for the thunder to strike.

"You have violated the Death God's code of conduct and thus are subject to punishment. As both your superior and the victim in question, this man shall decide on your fate." Beguiling, Will's authoritarian chant sank to almost sinful depths with a few select words -- perhaps unintentional -- and Grell mourned to admit that this was obviously none of the little games of her castles in the air. He was the eagle to her rabbit, ruthless and majestic; yet even the eagle's unassailable predator gaze looked up to the unjustly victimized Undertaker, who himself feigned utter smug cluelessness while comfortably cross-legged in the armchair.

Swinging his feet to the insane cuckooing in his head, the ex-Death God raised a reproachful finger and clicked his tongue. "Now, now, don't make such a big fuss, William. Miss Sutcliff is right; we already settled the matter, with the conclusion that I should have been more careful with my humor, hmm?" Even with his eyes concealed behind a cascade of silver hair, the Undertaker was unmistakably looking at her; he was the quiver of her knees, her gaping mouth and the warm memory of that one look she had stolen. _Miss _Sutcliff... oh, how beautifully it rang in her ears and warmed her body! Despite his other qualities, the retired Death God certainly knew to address a lady properly...

Whereas her face might have softened at Undertaker's words, her superior was as unyielding as her trusted chainsaw. "That hardly changes the fact that _Mister_ Sutcliff is a hair's breadth away from being _demoted_ to a mere window cleaner. And for the sake of my clean windows, I demand a punishment." A freefall to reality, William's words hit Grell's lips in sharp and precise gusts, stripping them off their dreamy grin. A window cleaner... was that all she meant to him? She whimpered, crestfallen, a pleading gaze at the man in whose creepy hands her fate now lay.

"Such a diligent young man, aren't you? Hehehe..." Undertaker's insane cackle erupted from beneath his crooked top hat as he cocked his head towards William, tapping a finger against his chin as if in some sort of wicked survey over the dark-haired gentleman in a suit. "Well, if you insist, I might have a nice little _job_ for Miss Sutcliff. It won't take long, and I would very much appreciate a _helping hand_ after you're done with your work," came his suggestion after a moment of chuckleful contemplation behind his drivelly sleeve and scarred, black-clawed hand.

For a moment, Grell felt her breath flow more freely in her throat as the dark-haired executive froze for one of his characteristical fits of deep thinking. She blinked, all of her attention drawn to the stern mastermind whose only motion of coming to a conclusion was the rise and sink of an eyebrow; everything in him screamed power and intellect as his warm hand resumed its hold on his red-haired subordinate.

"Very well. Grell, you'd better thank your luck and this man. However, I will also be there to make sure you won't trick him into going easy on you." How Grell loved to hear William move onto a first name basis, to roll hers on his tongue; yet at the same time she knew he could sink no deeper in her superior's eyes made of cruel beauty. She had blundered, there was no changing that, but she could still redeem herself -- however saintly he regarded the silver-haired Death God before her. She would finish whatever Undertaker was to give her in the speed of light, deliver it to her Will on a silver platter with a side dish of her own exquisite touch.

Placing one hand on William's, she dared to unwrap his fingers from her collar and muster a deceitfully subservient sulk upon her lips. "Yes, William... Undertaker," she sighed, a downcast glance at each man in turn from the shadow of her long eyelashes. Perceiving only ominously glinting glasses and scarred skin underneath an overgrown fringe, she shivered and turned away with the slightest of curtseys.

Despite what one may think, Grell Sutcliff did not like surprises at all; the infinite mistakes and embarrasments in her chronicles had taught her as much. Alas, a surprise -- and a possibly icky one at that -- was the only thing she knew to expect of the silver-haired man she had once mistaken for a harmless, drivelling lunatic.

Indeed, now she knew better, and scurried to the powder room to see just how many grey hairs men had caused her -- once again.

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Exactly what kind of _job_ does Unny have in store for Grellybean? Find out in the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

Sunset had encrimsoned the Death Gods' library, casting a glowing shadow over the columned corridors when Grell Sutcliff finally brought her day's work to an end. She had paced around the building restlessly, carrying things around and straightening gold-framed portraits of the famed gods, her predecessors; all the while collecting a few odd, worthless souls and yawning through the banal records of their so-called lives. The only thing that had gotten her through the unhealthily tedious day was the buzz from countless cups of her favourite tea; a luxurious blend of vanilla and cinnamon, the extent of William's will to bend the budget to meet her exquisite taste.

Having reached the top floor nearly without noticing, she retrieved her exquisite silver pocket watch - a secret memento of her beloved demon - and cast a lazy glance at the Roman numbers. There was no use to postpone her impending doom; even though the home she would return to was cold and empty, it was far better than this dusty colossus where she had to hide her true nature, subject herself to the inexcusable blunder of gods that was her own body. She shuddered and enveloped herself tighter into her coat, determination coupled to frustration as she turned sharply for a knock on the dilapidated door to her punisher's chambers.

"Please, come in." Folding her arms behind her back, Grell obeyed the creaking duet of the door and the voice coming far behind it. Gentle candlelight and closed curtains greeted her weary eyes, the scent of myrrh and something pungent her nose, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sadly, she was not here to play hide-and-seek, and the dark, isolated 'closet' in the corner was a bit too ominous for her to keep searching. With a mere flick of her wrist, she opened what proved to be an upright casket – and nearly dropped the glasses from her nose at the sight she faced.

There was the Undertaker with his hair-raising grin; spindly hands clasped together, obviously delighted by her arrival. "Long time no see, miss. Perfect timing, yes, for I almost fell asleep," he chuckled, making Grell wonder if the man _ever_ slept. The mere thought of what this man actually did or didn't made her shudder and step aside, eyes following the dark, prancing figure. "How about a nice cup of tea? I just made some for the occasion," the man chirped from between his collection of strange implements and ornaments - something William would never let _her_ bring into the office! - and Grell was quite sure she had no time to waste on such trifles.

"What do you want me for? I'm not going to do any dirty work or," she said with a theatrical hint of disgust and crossed arms, "touch your filthy corpses." It was a common misconception that the dead pleased her more; how could they, when the snapping film blazed like supernovae in the eyes of the dying? Ah, how she loved the gloriously pathetic sight of the wretched clinging to their lives... but after the blood was shed, she no longer cared, unlike this strange little man, who now shambled back with something that Grell thought was a sad excuse of a tea set and a jar of cookies.

Beckoning the red-haired Death God to follow, the Undertaker sat down on a pile of newly polished coffins and dusted her a spot uncomfortably close to him. "Oh, no, nothing like that. I do have a little job for you... nothing work-related, that is," he said cryptically before tucking in a burned, bone-shaped cookie that robbed Grell of the last of her appetite as it reminded her of that disgusting hound roaming about the Phantomhive estate. True, the Undertaker did not seem a busy man in the least - else he would not loiter around in the library instead of boxing the deceased and blanketing them with those vulgar flowers. If it was some diversion he asked of her, well; an actress that she was at heart, she could take her audience and take their breath away - in this case, bring the man out in a wobbly cackle, if that was the measure of her success.

With a raise of her eyebrow, she chose to lend the older Death God a suspicious ear and torture her taste buds with the foul-looking contents of the beaker set for her. "Well, if Will approves, it must be alright," she sighed, twirling the beaker in her hands before taking a sip; it was bitter as hell, but somehow gave a rather delectable aftertaste. With caution, she gave her colleague a small nod of approval and lifted her hand to chance a cookie - yet what she got was the Undertaker's cold hand in hers, gently lacing fingers with her. Grell could not help noticing how perfect his nails were – long, black and flawless despite whatever horrifying things he might have to touch in his job on earth. The hands truly were the measure of a good man, worth a missed heartbeat as the man rested his head against her palm.

"What did you have in mind, then? Will I cook or make tea for you?" she asked, a slight languor in her gaze as she desperately tried to look the man in the eye well hidden underneath a silky mass of hair and a neatly stitched scar. The more she paid attention, the more intrigued she was to know what had nearly split the Undertaker's grinning face in two – he must have been a very beautiful man once, and the years had not been unkind to him thereafter. Certainly, this man would be more fascinating company than her ever-so-serious William!

"You certainly gave me a surprise back then, Miss Grell. It's not every day that I find a Death God in my coffin, you see... especially one as ravishing as you." Ignoring her question, the Undertaker's words were just as much of a surprise as his cold, emaciated hand that crept its way along the redhead's neck to gently cup her chin. She shivered, his voice squeaking and echoing in her ears; _ravishing_, he called her, and good heavens, his touch was indeed speaking the same language!

Long black nails played upon her skin, tracing the corners of her mouth as if to conjure up a smile much alike his. "You see, I have become so used to the blanched lips of the deceased that your ruby red took me aback. Forgive me if I seemed rude, for it was not my intention," he whispered in Grell's ear, cold breath and wicked lips skimming her skin behind the curtain of crimson locks. His lean frame now reached hers, sending silky shivers all across her body - a spider, weaving his net in wait for his poor butterfly. For a stranger, he was indecently close – yet the stranger's mouth curled wickedly against her skin for more rasped words to thrill her.

"Such flawless skin, too, my dear... Whereas corpses are beautiful as such, nothing compares to the blood red queen of the night who brought them to my disposal." Queen of the Night... no one had ever called her that, the beautiful creature that she longed to be, dead souls genuflected at her feet. Men would not dare flatter her, no; the delight in the Undertaker's voice and touch was genuine, and the butterflies in her stomach told her to return the affection with hers.

"Apology accepted. So let's just forget about the job and we're even," she muttered with a demure, downcast glance; trying to squirm her way free from the man's touch, only to find herself splayed even deeper in the Undertaker's lap. She felt something hard underneath her carve into her flesh - maybe one of the big, ornate lockets dangling from his belt - and she flinched, held still by the buckle of her waistcoat where a pair of surprisingly strong arms met. She felt frail like a lantern made of ice, yet with a peculiar fire safe within– and just for a moment, she enjoyed being held, if only out of mere curiosity.

The Undertaker, however, did not seem all that curious of her suggestion. He shook his head, the tip of his crooked top hat tickling her cheek. "Ah, now we're mistaken, aren't we? I don't find it wise to anger Mr. Spears, not at all," he articulated, his last three words landing with sharp taps up Grell's nose, chiding her as if she was a little girl caught running away. Running she was, from both William's wrath and whatever work this man had planned for her; the one place where she could hide was, strangely enough, in the awkward coziness of the Undertaker's lap – her current no man's land.

It was quite an unexpected odyssey of hers, and this Grell did not realize until a sudden loss of breath made way to a chaotic outburst of thought – a stillborn one, quelled by lips softer than the velvet of the man's embrace. She could not fight the nostalgic feeling; she was the weary wayfarer, sceptical before a mirage in her desert until a sip ignited the thirst she had denied for the days of her journey. She could but comply, for he tasted of sweet decay like the roses he laid in the hands of the deceased, and he did not hold back despite the uniquely sharp set of teeth threatening to tint that harmony with the metallic taste of blood. She could no longer resist, not with her heart barred away between another heart and a bony arm, the man's muffled chuckle vibrating pleasantly through his slowly devouring kiss.

Hers was a freefall, a timeout in the moment of weightless surrender as Grell found herself recumbent in the half-open casket – discovered like a precious ruby in a velvet case by the Undertaker on all fours above him. "Wh-what are you doing?" she whimpered; all rolling eyes and trembling gasps as his heeled boots caressed her sides, their buckles leaving cold kisses by each rib. His hands carded through her silky hair, reverent and knowing on their own as the man leaned in to grace her neck with ardent nibs.

"You have talent, Grell Sutcliff, such brilliant talent... It would be such a shame not to unleash your full potential, hmm?" he purred, face to face with his bewildered subordinate to seal his flattering words with crawly caresses across her chest. Manacled in silver locks and necklaces, Grell struggled to seize a sensible thought despite the shivers of pleasure crossing her spine; the man was right, this could be nothing else than an act she would indulge in, give another magnificent performance in the role he had cast her in. The truth had long ago waved her a white flag; the transition from life to the afterlife a painful disappointment, for there was still no power great enough to fix the worst crime of all. Her smoke and mirrors were indeed justified – could she break free should the audience prove undeserving?

"Now, about that _job_ I have for you..."

Pinched between the ex-Reaper's spindly legs, yielding under the throbbing weight of something she refused to name, it was instinct that made Grell cast her emerald eyes upwards, begging for something akin to both mercy and more. It was a scenario that could have been ripped from the epics of her imagination, a touch of charnel monochrome to the illustration she now found herself in. Yet this was not the man he had imagined – who was this man she had trusted her night off with?

All it took was his hand gently stroking her flaming hair and the perfect angle, and Grell Sutcliff found her paradise lost again by a single helpless glance at the Undertaker's eyes. One look and she fell, unable to resist the chuckling Medusa petrifying her in caress as layers of funeral black gave way in reverence of what lay underneath robes of velvet and chains of memories.

Oh, the timeless yet long-forbidden thrill of skin against teeth, the salty taste of blood harnessed by sweeps of tongue; all shades of desire interconnected in a single feat. It was vile and degrading, to be expected of those filthy whores she had tried to purge London of – yet the disgust was evenly matched by her innate feminine compassion, the pleasure of another becoming hers through her own hands and mouth.

Little had she paid mind to the script, for there was to be a third protagonist. It was the first time Grell Sutcliff ever forgot her lines, frozen still in the middle of her scene - tiny drops of blood adorning her bared teeth at the sight of William T. Spears at the coffin's feet.


End file.
